


Angels on the Moon

by inlaterdays



Category: Cable and Deadpool, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2556701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlaterdays/pseuds/inlaterdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted to the Cable and Deadpool kinkmeme on LJ in 2009. A different spin on a canon arc.</p>
<p>  <b>Prompt:</b><br/>Everyone knows that Cable is GI Jesus, weight of the world on his brawny shoulders, etc, etc.</p>
<p>I'd like to see some self-sacrificing Wade. I mean, this is a guy who blew off his own head, twice in C&DP, to prevent others from using him as a weapon. Make it hurt Anon, make it hurt.</p>
<p>Bonus if no one realizes what Wade did and still blames him because Deadpool is the whipping boy of the Marvel-verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Do you dream  
that the world will know your name?  
So tell me your name..._

Providence was nice.

It was probably the nicest place Wade had ever lived. No, strike that: it was far and away the nicest place he'd ever lived, bar none. Nice enough to almost get him to drop his guard, but not quite. He'd finally stopped wearing his work clothes and started wandering around in civvies; people called him “Wade” or even “Mr. Wilson” rather than “Deadpool” or “You idiot,” which was disconcerting. But not unpleasant.

On the other hand, Nate hadn't been acting like Nate lately. And that was both disconcerting and unpleasant.

Maybe it was just that Wade wasn't used to seeing him tired, recuperating, and powerless. Well, not powerless, but power-less. It was weird.

Weeks after he'd merged with the alien symbiont, he still wasn't back to full steam. Oh sure, he acted large and in charge in public, but in private, it was different. Wade hadn't realized just how strongly telepaths-from-birth depended on their abilities until he saw Nate missing the occasional social cue or misreading body language...and for subtle-as-a-truck Wade to notice meant that something was definitely wrong. He was distracted by researching that Skornn thing, too, which Wade really didn't pay much attention to because thinking about it made his head hurt.

It was a good thing Nate had friends to look after him until he was more like himself. Friends like Irene (who was surprisingly easy on the eyes for a brainy chick, but when Wade had told her that, she hadn't seemed flattered – funny thing. You could never tell with brainy chicks) and friends like Wade. Friends with his best interests at heart.

People were flocking to the island, and no wonder: Nate never did anything halfway. If anyone could make paradise on earth a reality, it was him. He was still only human, though, no matter how often he tried to pretend otherwise; he could and did make mistakes. Nate played the Omniscience card the way Wade played the Fool card: sometimes it was a put-on, sometimes it was real, and most times it was damn hard for most people to tell the difference. And occasionally, it backfired.

When the world's most wanted terrorist was invited to join the island haven, Wade was sure his friend was slipping. But that was okay (in a way), because it gave him something to do. Clearly someone needed to keep an eye on Nate, and that eye was going to be Wade.

It felt good to have a purpose in life again. It was like being a private detective and Nate's (unauthorized) bodyguard all rolled into one. Which was cool. Nate didn't go out that much these days (Irene made him rest a lot, which made Nate cranky, which was sort of endearing if you thought about it which of course Wade never did, not like that).

Nate, of course, noticed when Wade put his plan into action. He'd left his quarters and seemed to be wandering pretty aimlessly, when he pivoted suddenly. Wade turned and pretended to be examining something in a shop window, but a large and unmistakable presence kept looming pointedly at the left side of his vision.

Act casual. Right.

“Nate! What are you doing here?”

He could tell that Nate was trying to suppress a laugh. That was better than cranky, at least. Maybe.

“It's my island, Wade.”

“Oh, right, right.”

“You've been following me for days now, and pretty obviously, too. That staring-into-a-window-and-pulling-down-your-baseball-cap act wouldn't fool a 12-year-old.”

Dammit.

“I just happened to be going this way too.”

“This street is a dead-end. I walked down here purposely to see what you'd do.”

“You could have just asked me...”

That made Nate blink. “I suppose I could have. But it was funnier to watch you try to be inconspicuous.”

“I guess I don't blend into the crowd so good, huh?”

“Not really. Not in that Deadpool t-shirt, at any rate.” (Curses. Foiled by vanity again.) “So what are you doing?”


	2. Chapter 2

_Do you care  
about all the little things  
or anything at all?_

Wade shifted his weight from foot to foot before deciding to just come out with it. “Honestly? I'm worried about you. Sorry, dude, but you asked. I just wanted to, you know, to look out for you. To make sure nothing bad happened.”

Nate smiled all big, and for an instant Wade was afraid he was going to go into his what-could-possibly-happen-look-around-you-this-is-Providence speech (Wade had that one memorized), but he didn't.

“That's actually not a bad idea.”

“It's not?”

“Nope. I could use a lookout. Just don't follow me into the bathroom or anything.”

“You let Irene - “

“Irene doesn't talk nonstop while I'm trying to...do something.”

“Oh. Okay, you got it.”

“But if I tell you to back off, you back off, all right?”

“Right.” He was Nate's _sort-of-almost-official_ bodyguard. This was _so_ cool.

* * *

“You're letting him _what_?” Irene was clearly not pleased. Wade was outside of Nate's office, in the hallway, trying to figure out what loitering was and how you did it.

“Where's the harm? I thought you'd be glad to have someone keeping tabs on me when you're not around to - “

“Play nursemaid?”

“I was going to say 'make sure I'm not overdoing things', but your way works too.”

Irene sat back and crossed her arms. "If you think you need a bodyguard, John could - "

"I don't, not really. And John blends into the background so _well_."

It always threw Irene a little when Nate made jokes. He was so deadpan...and he enjoyed making people react too much.

"All right, point taken. But you're just going to let him just tag along after you like a puppy, basically?” A big, scary, violent, hair-trigger, Rottweiler puppy. One that wasn't housebroken.

“He wants to feel he's helping. Can you blame the guy? He's not used to feeling like he's not constantly at war with the world. I can understand that.”

Nate's brow creased, and Irene felt a stab of sympathy. She knew Nate felt crippled by the loss of his powers. If it made him feel better to have Deadpool in tow wherever he went, it was probably all right...although using the words “Deadpool” and “all right” in the same sentence, even mentally, raised her hackles.

“You're the boss,” she said, finally.

* * *

Wade started keeping a notebook.

Just like a _real_ detective. Or like that Jimmy Olsen kid from That Other Comics Company...no, no, bad mental image. He didn't want to get stuck in freckle-faced sidekickville. More like Philip Marlowe. Yeah. Now there was a real fictional detective. All _noir_ (he'd learned that word from an all-night Bogart film festival) and broody and chicks really dug that, right? Total win.

With the state his short-term memory was in currently, he needed to write stuff down anyway. That whole business with the Black Swan and that stupid Deadpool-wannabe Alex Hayden had somehow kicked his cellular regeneration into overdrive. At least, that's what he thought had started it, when he could remember to think about it at all. His healing factor worked like zippity-doo-dah these days, but his memory? Not so much.

Hence the notebook. Besides, it made him look cool. A Blackberry would have made him look cooler, but he didn't have one, so pen and paper it was.


	3. Chapter 3

_This is to one last day in the shadows  
And to know a brother's love_

Wade was seated a few tables away (inconspicuously; not wearing a Deadpool t-shirt) on the morning when Nate had breakfast with Haji Bin Barat.

At first, the entire island seemed as nervous about the man's presence as Wade was. But as weeks passed and nothing happened, he became gradually absorbed into the populace. He still didn't mingle much – kept to himself aside from the occasional outing for food or a religious observance – but most of the participants in Nate's Grand Social Experiment were willing to accept the idea of the island as a place of asylum; a jumping-off point for fresh starts.

That was all well and good, and Wade was totally down with most of the don't-worry-be-happy agenda (he himself was recycling and eating soy, and if that wasn't proof that people could change, what was?), but he wasn't convinced in this particular case. In his experience, people who were willing to go to any lengths to prove what they thought was a point didn't change after a month of margaritas and mariachi bands. (Two months, maybe. There were some fine margaritas to be had on the island.)

As it was, Wade still had his suspicions. And so the day that the political rhetoric was dropped was the day he really sat up and took notice.

There the man was, sitting across from Nate, all insincere smiles and you've-shown-me-the-error-of-my-ways talk. Wade snorted into his morning glass of Mountain Dew. As if Nate would buy that.

Except Nate looked damned pleased about it. It was a cheap line of patter being reeled off; even Wade could see right through it. But Nate wanted to believe so badly that anyone and everyone could get along if he just showed them how to do it...sometimes, he could be too trusting. Especially now, when he was vulnerable. Wade wanted to believe, too; he really did. In Nate, in this place. He just wanted to go slowly, that was all. Nate wanted change overnight.

Nate shook Barat's hand and left, beaming...and Barat wiped the hand Nate had shaken on a napkin, frowning, then grabbed another napkin and began scribbling on it furiously while muttering to himself.

Wade got up to follow; made a big show of tripping over his own feet and bumping into the guy as he exited, offering profuse apologies and receiving a strained smile in return. But he'd gotten a good look at the napkin, and he'd head the mutters.

Although he joked about being able to say “chimichanga” in seven languages, Wade actually was fluent, and Arabic was one of the seven. Because he was currently likely to forget things in seven languages as well, he sought out a bench down the street from the diner (even the sidewalks were nice in Providence – clean; dotted with seats and trees), transcribing what he'd heard and read into his notebook before it was lost in the chaotic dance of his mental processes.

And then sat with his head in his hands for a very long time.

Long enough that Nate noticed he was missing and came to find him. Wade pocketed his notes, smiled, and tagged along, but he felt awful inside, and it wasn't from indigestion.

Sometimes it really sucked to be right.

_This is to all the would-be angels  
And the rivers of our blood  
This is to all of us..._

He thought about possible courses of action for several days. That is, he mostly didn't think, but when he re-read his notes at night, he'd think. He'd been reminding himself to keep tabs on Barat as well as Nate, at least as well as he was able, and he didn't like what he saw.

Inquiries about the locations of the island's HVAC systems and the areas of greatest population density could be harmless. Coupled with the list of items scribbled on the napkin (which could also be harmless by themselves, but could also be put together in a way that would make things explode) and the man's angry mutters, though...Wade didn't like the picture.

His first impulse was to go to Nate. Or would have been, had he not seen Irene try and repeatedly fail to broach worries about other things. The only thing Nate seemed to worry about was this Skornn deal; island matters ran themselves for the most part, and he seemed to assume that that pattern would hold true no matter what.

Wade wished Nate's telepathy would come back for just an hour. He was so used to relying on himself as the ultimate source of information that it was hard for him to take outside input seriously enough. And a lot of the day-to-day worries in this place really were fairly minor. There wasn't even an organized police force; they hadn't needed one. That was another problem, although it felt kind of weird to think that. Law enforcement and he had never exactly gotten along.

But if somebody wanted a place to come to commit a really big crime, this was pretty much the place to do it.

And if somebody wanted to stop somebody? What were the options?


	4. Chapter 4

_I want to feel_  
All the chemicals inside  
I want a sunburn  
Just to know that I'm alive 

“Where's your shadow?” Irene asked.

Cable paused in the act of walking to his office. “Busy, I guess. Why?”

She tapped a pencil, absently. “He hasn't been around as much the past couple of days. Just wondering if you two had had a fight or something.”

“Not that I'm aware. Do you think something's wrong?”

“With Deadpool? How would I be able to tell, exactly?”

“Good point.” Nate chewed his lip. “Seriously, though, I think you're worrying too much.”

_And maybe you're not worrying enough. Still..._ “Well, you yourself said he'd get bored.”

“I'm sure that's all it is.”

Wade breezed into the room, wearing another of the loud Hawaiian-print shirts he was (unfortunately) starting to favor.

“Hey, kids. Sorry I'm late. Ya miss me?”

“Told you,” Cable smirked. Irene rolled her eyes, and Wade looked from one to the other.

“You did miss me! Gum, Irene?” Wade parked himself on a corner of her desk, waggling his eyebrows in what he probably thought was a suggestive manner. (Why had she complained about his absence, again?)

“No thanks, Wade.” _Must. Not. Snap. Pencil. In. Half._

“'Kay.” He stuck two sticks of Juicy Fruit in his mouth, and talked around the gum. “Hey, Nate. If you don't need me for anything, I think I'm just gonna sightsee for a bit.”

“Knock yourself out,” Nate called, waving a hand. And couldn't resist adding “See?” after Wade was out of earshot.

“That's two I-Told-You-Sos so far today, and it's not even lunchtime yet,” Irene grumbled.

Nate laughed, then seated himself in front of his own computer, where he'd be lost for hours.

* * *

Wade wandered aimlessly for a bit; movement helped him think. All this thinking lately was getting on his nerves. He'd never been what you might call a thinking kind of guy; action was better. More fun, he was good at it, and it burned calories, too. No way to lose with action, really. Well, that wasn't true, there was, and he'd done it a lot, but it was still more fun than thinking. Most of the time.

He had figured out what he had to do; he just didn't like it much. Seemed wrong on Nate's island, somehow, but what about the other guy? That was wrong, too, right? He'd been hanging around Nate too much lately: all these scruples were starting to rub off and get in the way of his ability to do anything. Philip Marlowe wouldn't hesitate.

Probably.

Maybe it wasn't scruples holding him back so much as it was jealousy. Whenever Nate did the Heroical Saving People Thing, he got to look good and have people love him. When Wade did it, it always just seemed to mean more blood on his hands. Not fair, but it was what it was.

Man. It was definitely time to do something. He was starting to mope like Cyclops. Now _that_ was a really scary thought.

Wade did nothing-on-purpose for the rest of the day; he felt better after lunch (enchiladas, raspberry pie, and Mountain Dew; the waitress made that funny face again when he ordered) and an afternoon spent ogling hippie chicks in the park, especially the more scantily-clad ones. He walked back to his room as night was starting to fall. The sunset was gorgeous; they nearly always were – if he didn't know better, he'd swear Nate planned them. Opened his closet and fingered his work clothes for the first time in weeks. Maybe he should suit up – nah. He'd do it in civvies. Best to just get it over with, once it was fully dark.


	5. Chapter 5

_And show me where you run to  
When no one's left to take your side  
But don't tell me where the road ends  
'Cause I don't want to know  
No, I don't want to know..._

After all that worry, the act itself was quick and almost embarrassingly easy. Two leaps, three jumps, and a snap. No one saw him; the guy never knew what hit him. Wade looked around the room while the body was still cooling on the floor.

There were a bunch of papers lying on a low table; at a glance, they seemed to confirm everything he'd been worried about. Wade was furious, but Barat was already dead, and he wasn't the kind of person you could kill more than once, apparently. He shot the corpse some _really unpleasant looks_ , though. Maybe he should have terrorized him a little first – nah. Pointless. It wasn't like he'd have been able to change the guy's mind or anything. If Nate couldn't, nobody could.

On an impulse, he picked up the papers, folded them, and stuffed them into a pocket alongside his notebook. For some reason, Wade didn't want Nate to find out what Barat had been planning. It looked like he'd been working alone – why stir up trouble, or give other people ideas? Besides, he kind of...didn't want to hurt Nate's feelings. He felt protective. Nate wanted everyone to have a second change, and it wasn't his fault that not everyone deserved one. This way was better. No loose ends that he could see; problem solved. Everything taken care of. There was just one thing left to do.

* * *

The incinerators on Providence were large and efficient, like everything else; they burned hot and clean, and were used to dispose of any non-recyclable waste in an environmentally-friendly manner. In short, they were ideal for making things disappear forever.

Wade flung his notebook and Barat's papers into one of the furnaces, dusted his hands, thrust them into his pockets, and walked back outside. He actually felt physically lighter. Job done, problem solved; game over.

Good. Because his head really hurt.

He spent some time lying on his back on the roof of his apartment building, just decompressing. Staring up at the moon. He rarely thought about his childhood (he rarely _remembered_ much of anything about it), but a random free-association memory surfaced: the first time he'd ever been in a fight.

It wasn't long after his mom had died. He'd been maybe five, and had confused the moon with his concept of heaven. They were both Things Up In the Sky, right? Anyway, he'd made the mistake of saying something about it to a kid in his class. The kid had laughed at him. The kid had also gotten his ass kicked, even though Wade was smaller.

He never had seen things the way other people seemed to. But was that necessarily wrong? Wade waved a huge, scarred hand (the same hand that had once been smooth and small, but no less eager to prove points with fists) vaguely at the sky. _Hi, Mom._

And then sat up and shook himself. _For Pete's sake._ All this concentrating on his ability to concentrate; all this introspection; it had been necessary, but it was not his usual style at all, and it was driving him nuts. More nuts than usual. He was going to go to bed and forget all about it. Forget all about _everything_. Maybe some beer, maybe some movies, and then give in to his mind's natural tendency to erase itself. Just let it happen. Damn, he was looking forward to it, too. _Oblivion, here, I come._

And he deserved to lighten up for a bit. Job well done and all. _Memory, go away; I'm sick of you already. Forgettery, it's your turn now. Do your stuff._

For the first time in ages, Wade slept deep and dreamlessly.


	6. Chapter 6

_Don't tell me if I'm dying  
'Cause I don't want to know_

Wade woke up feeling great. He couldn't remember exactly why, but that was all right. Why argue with a lack of badness? In fact, he felt so good that he decided to wear his red-and-blacks for the first time in weeks, and that felt even better. He felt like Deadpool again for some reason, ready to kick any asses that needed it, and take any names that – well, forget taking names; he'd just kick _more ass_.

It made him positively perky to strap on his katanas again. Why hadn't he done this before? It pleased him that Nate allowed him his weapons on the island. Aside from Nate himself, Wade was the only one who hadn't had to disarm. Well, not counting that big dork Prester John who looked like Obelix from the Asterix comics (and who was scared of Obelix?) and the security team, but really, they hardly counted anyway.

He headed over to Nate's office out of habit. He knew he'd been hanging around but couldn't remember why, exactly. Oh well. Nate would remind him if it was important.

Nate was there, but Irene wasn't. Nate was looking at him kind of funny.

“'Sup, Nate? Where's Irene?”

“She's – something's happened, Wade. She's looking into it.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“You could ask her. ...Wade? Why the uniform?”

Wade flashed him a spandex-covered grin. “Don't know. Felt like it. Looks like a lucky thing, too, right? I mean, Irene might need my help.”

He was gone. “Yeah...lucky,” Nate said, thoughtfully.

Wade felt excited. It wasn't that he didn't love Nate's island or anything, but, let's face it, paradise could be just a tiny bit boring, occasionally. An opportunity for action, though – that was right up his alley.

He stopped off at his own room first, rooting around in his closet for the fedora and trenchcoat he'd acquired during his recent Humphrey Bogart phase. Deadpool suit and private eye duds. Now that was full kit. Man. Irene was going to fall down dead from joy when he showed up to help.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't bother describing most of the events that happen in canon, because they happen the same way.

_If I can't see the sun  
Maybe I should go_

...Wow, okay, he'd really been wrong about _that_ one.

Of course, because this was _his_ life, things didn't turn out quite the way he'd expected or hoped. If only that Scots git hadn't stepped up the violence, maybe he'd have been able to think. He knew there was something _right there_ , something important, something he'd been doing just days before. But he couldn't access it, and all the adrenaline from the running and the fighting had pushed any remaining memories completely out of his brain. Whatever it was that might have been helpful was just...gone...and he couldn't get it back.

Wade sat on the ground, uniform in tatters, looking up at a Very Displeased Nate. He could tell just from looking at Nate's face that Nate thought he'd done all this, caused all this trouble, on a whim. That couldn't be true.

Could it?

* * *

Cable was angry, but he didn't know whether he was angrier at Deadpool or at himself. He'd thought – hoped – that Wade would have come to him had there been a problem...but he hadn't exactly been open to discussions of problems other than his own lately. He'd shrugged off too much responsibility onto Irene; she'd sent Prester John after Wade, and when you sent anyone after Wade, he fought back. It was a survival skill and a reflex. The whole thing had degenerated into a huge and public mess.

Nate wanted answers. He wanted to understand, but Wade wasn't talking. He either couldn't or wouldn't. And Nate could think of only one thing to do. It was for Wade's own good and for the sake of public safety.

Wasn't it?

* * *

All of Wade's belongings fit into a single duffel bag, except for his swords. He strapped those onto his back, even though he'd changed back into street clothes. They felt familiar, comfortable. Nothing else did right now.

No one came to the harbor to see him off.

A few people gawked, but when didn't they? He stared up at the gleaming expanse of glass, bright as hope even in the dimly reflected lights of evening, behind which Nate's office lay.

_Hope, but not for me._

He'd meant so well, and he'd only ended up messing up again. Even on Nate's Island of Misfit Toys, he didn't fit in. It shouldn't have surprised him; shouldn't have hurt, but it did, like an arrow straight to the heart he'd have sworn he didn't have any more.

Never ask the one question you don't want to know the answer to.

That question wasn't: _If I do this again, will you come after me?_ He'd asked that one.

It was: _Do you still believe in me, Nate?_

He hadn't needed to ask. He knew the answer; he'd seen it in Nate's eyes.

The engine thrummed beneath his feet. Providence left his field of vision as the boat carrying him away from this place that had, so briefly, begun to feel almost like home, swung around and left the harbor.

Wade stared out at the infinite expanse of dark ocean. Salt spray from the bow hit him in the face, but he didn't care; didn't turn away. He knew where he was going: Moscow. There was a man there who was supposed to know everything. If anyone could figure out how to put an end to the long, messed-up swath of carnage and letting people down that was the life of Wade Wilson, this guy could. Because, honestly: if the man who wanted to save the world turned his back on you personally, what was there?


	8. Chapter 8

Nate stood in his darkened office, staring out the window in the direction of the ocean, long after the ship bearing Wade away had passed out of view. He couldn't help but feel that something was wrong; something was missing. Wade had once told him (semi-bragged, really, but still) that he never killed except to get a paycheck or in response to a threat. As far as he knew, no one had paid him to take out Barat. Had the man threatened Wade? It seemed unlikely. Still...Nate frowned.

Wade just wasn't the thrill-kill sort. He enjoyed fighting, but taking life wasn't enjoyable; it was part of the job to him. And he'd gone through periods in the past where he tried not to do it at all. It just didn't add up.

Maybe he'd been too harsh. He hadn't actually meant that he'd kill Wade (he wasn't sure he even knew how – it's not like that hadn't gone many potentially-lethal rounds with each other in the past); he'd been frustrated, distracted, doing damage control, and trying to get Wade to pay attention. _This is serious; you can't keep on being this broken._ That's what he'd meant. Perhaps what he should have said.

He'd been hasty in not investigating further. But threats were pressing in from elsewhere, and he had so little time and such limited energy these days. Wade could take care of himself...couldn't he?

Occasionally, even with his telepathy gone, Nate got random flash-forwards, flashbacks; sometimes even scenes from alternate timelines. A side effect of time travel; always disorienting, but only momentarily so.

He was hit with one now, of startling clarity. He saw himself as a pre-adolescent, looking down on an adult Wade, strapped to a table in one of the labs here on the island. He had his powers back, and he was feeling sorry about something – possibly about a lot of things. “I think this might be the least I can do for him,” he heard his younger self say, before the scene faded.

Nate rubbed his brow. That made no sense. Himself as a child?

The sorry feeling remained, though the vision was gone. Maybe he'd not only been hasty with Wade – maybe he'd even been wrong. But one of the hardest things about being a leader, one of the first and most painful lessons he'd learned, was that you never showed doubt, even when you felt it. Especially when you felt it. It was bad for morale. Other people depended on you.

“When there's a job to be done, you can't just put your hands in your pockets and ignore it. It might be dirty work, but someone has to do it, don't they?”

He wasn't sure whether he was speaking about Deadpool or himself. There really were no heroes in all of this; just people with greater powers than human beings should have, trying to do their best according to their all-too-human, and inevitably flawed, powers of reasoning.

Irene coughed in the dark behind him. He wasn't sure how long she'd been standing there.

“Nate...are you all right?”

_Of course not._ “Yes. Just tired. What time is it?”

“Eight o'clock.”

“Do we have anything on for eight o'clock?”

“Dinner meeting.”

“We'd best get to it, then.” He had an island to run, and maybe, just maybe, a world to save.

Nathan Summers cast one last look out at the darkness that had swallowed the man he'd once called friend, and followed Irene out of the office.

_Don't wake me 'cause I'm dreaming_  
Of angels on the moon  
Where everyone you know  
Never leaves too soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, you can download Thriving Ivory's "Angels on the Moon" here: http://www.box.net/shared/3v0yf94h91. I used the lyrics out of order and changed them around a bit. Also, the last scene with Nate is an echo of the last scene in Jean Anouilh's "Antigone"

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [#weather vane](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12246831) by [Surefall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Surefall/pseuds/Surefall)




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